PTA Undertale One-Shots
by UndiscoveredSpecies
Summary: PTA Undertale is the best thing that's ever happened to me. A series of semi-connected one-shots, requests welcome. Enjoy monster shenaniganery and no undue amounts of sass.
1. Quiet Hands (Part 1)

**Quiet Hands (part 1)**

Sans opened his eyes, sitting up from where he was slumped on the couch. Something was different this time, something was wrong. Usually when Frisk charged home from school, hands moving so quickly their signs blurred together like ink and water, they threw the door open with such eager forced that it often rebounded off the wall. Now, however, there was the softest _hushhh_ of wood on carpet, the faint tap of a shoe, and then the heavy _thud_ of a backpack falling to the floor.

"Frisk?"

There was no answer, no quick smack of palm against the wall to let him know that Frisk had heard him, no cheerful whistle, no hurried patter of little feet running toward the couch. Sans waited, listening harder and glancing at the clock. 3:30. Fifteen minutes later than usual. He heaved himself to his feet and walked down the hall, turning the corner to see Frisk huddled against the wall, tears streaming in twin rivers down their cheeks and dripping onto their knees.

"Kid, what's wrong?" Sans pushed the door closed and crouched in front of them with a frown.

Frisk shook their head and shoved their forehead against their knees, their hands curled into pale-knuckled, trembling fists.

Sans picked up their backpack with one hand and wrapped his fingers around their upper arm, pulling them gently but insistently to their feet. "Come on, let's go away from the door."

Frisk allowed him to lead them toward the couch, immediately resuming their balled-up position upon sitting down. Sans dropped beside them, watching their shoulders shake with the force of their muffled sobs while their hands remained unnaturally still—there were no half-formed letters or signs of frustration, no anxious stimming or fluttering fingers—and now there was fear mingling in the pit of his stomach, boiling like oil through the rising tide of anger. Who or what had dared to hurt his kid this badly?

Sans draped his arm around Frisk's shoulder in a loose invitation, waiting for them to shrug it away or move closer. Sometimes they didn't want to be touched, and he understood that. This time, however, they immediately turned and buried their tear-streaked face in his chest, crying harder. He held them quietly, one hand drifting in a lazy path up and down their back, his bones whispering softly against the fabric of their sweater. He had to make a conscious effort to keep the tightness out of his body, shoving his anger and distress down into the darkness for fear that it would result in an empathetic surge from Frisk and overload them even more. He didn't want them to put a clamp on their own issues to try to fix his.

It took another few minutes for Frisk to cry themselves out, their heaving shoulders growing still and the tension leaking out of their small frame as their breathing slowed to a shuddery sort of normal.

"You wanna tell me what happened, kid?" Sans asked quietly, and his horror grew more profound as Frisk's face contorted. They didn't start crying again, and he watched, dumbstruck, as they strained as though struggling with something caught in their throat. A small, wordless noise, a weak gasping whimper, fell into the charged air and a devastating expression of blackest despair flung itself across their features. Frisk plunged their trembling hands into their hair, knotting it around their fingers in frustration.

Sans reached out and took their wrists, carefully easing their hands back down before raising his hands. _What happened?_ His signing was slow, faltering, but he was learning. The motions seemed to drive Frisk to a boiling point and they exploded into a flurry of motion, their hands flying faster than he had ever seen them move, almost violent in their rage and frustration.

 _I was signing to introduce myself and the teacher Mrs. Harris_ (their fingers flashed to spell out H-A-R-R-I-S before introducing a name-sign of the letter H and the universal motion for 'up-yours', their left palm slapping down onto their bicep with an audible _smack_ ) _was staring at me and then later on I was signing to answer a question about my family and I said I loved them and I spelled your names and she asked where I came from and I said Mount Ebott and she made me write it down because she couldn't understand what I was signing and she made a weird face and said I was THAT kid and then later on she told me that I have to use "quiet hands"_ (Frisk's air-quotes were so heavy that they nearly formed fists) _because my signs are distracting and she made me keep my hands in my lap the whole day and I wasn't allowed to talk and then she said later that she's going to arrange for me to take speech therapy classes so I can fit in with the other kids and so they won't make fun of me because I'm different and I told her I didn't want to and then she said to use my words and I hate her I hate her I hate her I HATE HER!_

Frisk buried their face in their knees again, just in time to miss the flare of icy blue that bloomed through Sans' eye like fire over dry grass. The hand that wasn't holding Frisk close had curled into a fist and he was struggling against the surge of magic he had instinctively drawn to him, nearly overwhelmed by the urge to annihilate this Mrs. Harris.

"Do you want to take speech therapy?" Sans asked, clenching his jaw and failing to keep the furious tremor out of his voice.

Frisk half-raised their head and shook it violently, scrubbing at their tears with the heels of their hands.

"Then you won't."

 _But she's the teacher and she said I have to!_ Frisk hung their head, their shoulders sagging with miserable defeat.

Sans reached out and placed his fingertips under Frisk's chin, lifting their tear-streaked face so their eyes met, watery brown against glowing white. "Listen to me, Frisk," Sans said seriously, keeping his hand in place. "She may be your teacher, but you're _my_ kid. And if she wants to impose some stupid ableist agenda, I'll give her a bad time."

 _Don't hurt anyone,_ Frisk signed, and Sans felt a hot pain sear across his heart like a brand.

"There are other ways of solving problems than resorting to violence," he said, ruffling their hair. "Although I think Mrs. Harris could learn from a blaster, I promise you I won't do anything like that. Okay?"

Frisk nodded, wiping their eyes on the hems of their sleeves.

Sans took them by the shoulders. "Toriel told me that there's a PTA meeting tomorrow," he remembered aloud. "I'll go to that and I'll make sure Mrs. Harris understands that she's wrong. Your signs aren't disruptive, and that you don't need to be fixed."

Frisk reached up and put their arms around his neck, leaning their temple against his collarbone. He hugged them back, wondering what he had just signed himself up for. Humans weren't afraid to hurt or to kill—hell, they were _eager_ to do it. But they had made a mistake when they had come after Frisk.

Holy _hell,_ they had made a mistake.


	2. Quiet Hands (Part 2)

**Quiet Hands (part 2)**

Everything smelled uncomfortably like lemons, from the periodically-hissing air freshener plugged into the wall to the gleaming linoleum floor, power-scrubbed to the point of cracking but still bearing the faint yet telltale scuff marks left by decades' worth of dirty shoes. Mount Ebott K-12 was a colossal building shaped like the world's grayest, most disappointing snowflake: there was one central hub containing the cafeteria, faculty offices, library, and gym, while twelve grade-allocated branches jutted outward.

 _Teachers' lounge,_ Sans thought, walking through the halls. The sounds of his footsteps echoed faintly along the arrow-straight corridor as he considered opening a portal and simply hopping through it, but Toriel had warned him that there was growing anti-monster sentiment at the school and that it would be best to avoid any rash decisions like teleportation or liberal displays of magic. The thought of her worried brown eyes and the frazzled strain in her voice was the only thing that kept Sans from doing exactly what she had forbidden.

A small plastic sign screwed into the wall designated the teachers' lounge, a surprisingly spacious room with a square table positioned exactly in the center. The surface held an unnatural sheen— _dear god, it's laminated,_ Sans realized with an inward shudder of some emotion too vague to name. _Humans are weird._ There was nobody else inside and Sans would have thought he missed the entire thing if Toriel hadn't so adamantly stressed that he be there by six thirty. The plastic clock on the wall ticked silently toward the half-mark, its rectangular hands showing five minutes to go. Sans sat down in one of the chairs, pushing it back toward the wall to kick it onto its back legs and lean with his skull resting against the plaster, blocked from the sight by the open door.

There was a rustling outside and the sound of footsteps. A woman entered, walking past Sans without looking at him. Her arms were full and she began unloading her burden onto the table: a plastic tray of lemon bars ( _lemons and plastic,_ Sans thought with a shake of his head and a smile. _I'll just have to accept the hard, sour truth that I'll never get away from them_.), a folder and pen, and a shiny silver thermos. She straightened up, her back to Sans, and tucked a strand of dyed-blonde hair behind her ear to reveal the glittering flash of a golden hoop earring and the unnatural shine of clear nail polish. She was wearing tight jeans and an unbuttoned white long-sleeve over a dark gray shirt. She stood several inches taller thanks to a strappy pair of wedge-heels. Sans made a mental note to never let Mettaton find out about them.

"Heya."

The woman started, turning around sharply. Creases appeared in her otherwise immaculate nude lipstick as she stared at Sans for several seconds, visibly trying to mask her surprise and distaste. "Hello."

"The name's Sans."

"Sans…"

"Just Sans."

"My name is Linda Harris," the woman said proudly. "I'm the president of the Parent Teacher Association."

So there _had_ been a reason for the prickle of dislike that shivered down his spine. Sans sat up straight, letting the front legs of the chair bang down on the floor. Linda grimaced. "Right, I'd like to talk to you," he said, standing up.

"And are you Toriel's child?"

Sans laughed so hard he had to sit back down for several seconds before grinning up at Linda, who was regarding him with confusion to rival her discomfort. "You're a funny woman, Linda. But I've noticed your sense of humor doesn't extend to your students." He stood up again, his smile still in place but his mirth gone. "Frisk is my kid."

Linda's face spasmed as she fought valiantly against wrinkling her nose. "I see. So you and Toriel are married."

"Nope."

Linda brought a hand to her chest, the gaudy costume rings glittering in the fluorescent lights.

"We're not even together," Sans said, his eyes narrowing slightly in wicked glee as she grew visibly more uncomfortable. "But our relationship isn't why I'm here. Yesterday Frisk came home. They were upset. Do you know why?"

"I—"

"It seems you told them to use something called 'quiet hands.'" Sans provided the air-quotes before dropping his hands back into the pockets of his hoodie. "Cute name for something so blatantly discriminatory, Linda."

"Frisk's signing is distracting—"

"I really can't imagine how a silent language would be more distracting than the babble of twenty-three other kids," Sans said, leaning forward slightly. "I'd think it'd be pretty _handy,_ actually."

Linda's nostrils flared as her mouth tightened. The lines in her lipstick deepened and blatant dislike crept into her eyes.

"Signing is how Frisk talks. They're mute—they are _incapable_ of speaking. Speech therapy will not do anything but take time away from their education, and frankly, it's insulting."

"I'm looking out for Frisk's wellbeing, if the other kids begin to make fun—"

"Then you should use your authority as teacher to explain to them that bullying won't be tolerated." He pointed toward the silver heart she wore on a fine chain around her neck. "You shouldn't wear that if you aren't capable of teaching kids anything besides facts."

Linda's jaw jutted forward aggressively and Sans was preparing another verbal onslaught—delivered as calmly and casually as though remarking on the weather—but before either of them could speak, another woman came into the room, stopping dead when she saw Sans. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, unlike Linda's severe A-cut, and she was in intimidatingly good shape. Her biceps had absolutely nothing on Undyne's (Sans estimated that this new arrival had approximately the same upper-body strength as the average chicken nugget), but the designer sneakers and the #DISCIPLINE shirt did have a certain unsettling vibe.

"Helen!" Linda greeted her a little too enthusiastically, planting two loud kisses in the air next to her cheeks. "How wonderful to see you! How is Tyler?"

"He's…he's doing well," Helen said, recovering. She made a brave attempt at composure as she looked at Sans. "I don't believe we've met."

"You'd think a talking skeleton would be more memorable," Sans agreed with a wink and a nod. "But hey, I won't _rib_ you about it too much."

Helen glanced at Linda, her smile frozen in place and her eyes just a little too wide. He could practically hear their internal screaming.

Jumping feet-first into the silence, Linda turned to Helen. "So this meeting I thought we could discuss the recent budget surplus and how to distribute it so that—"

"Hate to interrupt the chitchat, ladies," Sans said, sitting down and leaning the chair against the wall again, "but I'd really feel a lot better if Linda and I could continue our conversation about her discriminating against my kid. See, Frisk came home in tears over what you said to them." It was a dirty trick, but he wasn't going to let Linda think that she could get away with ignoring the hurt she had caused.

"I'm trying to look out for Frisk's best interests," Linda said superiorly.

"I'm sure that preventing them from signing or communicating at all does that admirably," Sans retorted, careful to keep his voice calm. He almost sounded sincere.

"The real world isn't going to cater to someone's specific needs," Linda snapped, planting her hands on her hips. "I'm trying to help her prepare for life outside of school."

" _Them._ "

"What?"

"Frisk uses neutral pronouns, as I'd thought you'd gathered from my frequent use," Sans replied. "And as for life outside of school, Frisk's family have all learned to sign so that we can understand Frisk. Because we care about them."

"I'll, um, I'll get Diana," Helen said uncomfortably, power-walking out of the teacher's lounge. "I think Sharon, Carol, and Jillian are here too…" She called a greeting to someone down the hall and Linda glared daggers at Sans, who folded his hands behind his head, smiling despite the cold rage bubbling in his stomach.

"Since you're a monster," Linda said with forced, saccharine civility, "I understand that you may have different social conventions wherever you come from."

Sans cut her off. "Kindness is a pretty universal thing, Linda. Or, at least it is among _monsters._ " He took a moment to enjoy her spluttered attempts at a snappy retort before he stared her straight in the face, letting his eyes go dark. She paled at the sight of the empty sockets and his wide grin, his posture unchanged but so unmistakable an aura of menace around him that she fell back a step, wobbling on her wedges. "Listen to me, Linda," Sans said quietly. "I'll give you a choice. You can reexamine your morals and resolve to treat Frisk like you would treat any other kid, or _you can answer to me._ " He let his chair fall forward again, the bang of the front legs making her startle once more. His pupils returned, glowing faintly. "Aw, come on. Take a note from your lemon bars and don't be such a _sour puss._ All I'm asking is that you show a little kindness. It's not that _crumb_ -y of a request." He tilted his head, watching her closely. "Did I hurt your _peelings_? I'm sorry. I'll leave you to make your own decisions about this conversation, but I think it was _fruitful._ "

Linda was nearly vibrating with anger and Sans continued to smile, already considering volunteering for the meeting next week. That heavily made-up face promised war and he met her mascara-ringed glare with unflinching tranquility. _Come on, Linda. Do your worst._


	3. Quiet Hands (Part 3)

**Quiet Hands (part 3)**

"How did the meeting go?" Toriel met Sans at the door, her large brown eyes wide with worry.

"I met Linda," Sans said grimly. The corner of his mouth twitched at the face she made. "I see you're not a fan of her either."

"There are some people who are…adverse…to my position as a teacher," Toriel admitted with a sigh, careful to keep her voice down. "Mrs. Harris is among them, and she is one of the most vocal about it. However, I am not worried. I am sure that all she needs is some time to get used to our presence and then she will see that while our exteriors may differ, it is the content of our souls that matters the most."

"I wish I had your optimism, Tori," Sans said.

"Oh, dear." She put a hand on his shoulder and looked down at him, a crease appearing between her eyes. "Sans, you were not _too_ terrible, were you?"

"Don't worry, I behaved myself," Sans promised. "I may have scared her a little, but it's nothing she didn't deserve."

Toriel donned her Stern Mom expression, narrowing her eyes. "Sans, what did you do?"

Sans tilted his head back to look at her for a moment and let his eyes bloom dark, the empty sockets staring up at Toriel. "That."

Toriel frowned at him. "I said no magic, Sans!"

"I didn't use any. That's something skeletons can do."

"I have never seen your brother do that," Toriel said doubtfully.

"Nah, Pap doesn't see a reason for it. Plus, it's a little harder to see it when he does it—narrow sockets and all that. But rest assured that I gave Linda quite an _eyeful._ "

"You are terrible, Sans." Toriel shook her head, looking back toward the kitchen and fighting against a smile.

"I know." Sans followed her gaze. "How's the kid?" Toriel hadn't been home when Frisk arrived in tears and he wondered if they had told her about 'quiet hands' at all.

"Frisk helped me cook—there are leftovers in the refrigerator if you would like any—and Papyrus is helping them with their homework. I am surprised that they are studying anatomy this early."

"Anatomy, huh?"

She nodded, her silken ears flapping slightly. "I am sorry you missed Papyrus's shock when he discovered that humans have skeletons inside them." She bit the inside of her cheek but wasn't able to stifle a grin. "It was quite amusing."

"I'll bet it was," Sans said. "Are they in the kitchen still?"

Toriel nodded. "Excuse me, I must find Undyne. The gym teacher had a question for me and I think that she would very much like to hear it." She turned to go, brushing her palm over the top of Sans's head as she went. He closed his eyes briefly at the touch before walking into the kitchen. Papyrus sat on the floor, the top half of his armor discarded to leave his bones bare to his hips. Frisk was circling him slowly, wielding a marker.

"HELLO, BROTHER!"

Frisk waved and Sans waved back, his irritation at Linda rapidly dissolving. "What're you up to, kiddo?"

"THE HUMAN IS LEARNING HOW TO LABEL SKELETONS!" Papyrus declared cheerfully. "I AM HELPING!"

Sans stepped closer, chuckling as he saw Frisk's carefully-shaped letters marked along his arms and ribcage, the word 'skull' spaced deliberately across his head like a strange sort of crown. "Does that wash off?"

"I THINK SO," Papyrus said, surveying his forearm. "I HOPE SO."

Sans dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, resting his chin in his palm. "What happened there?" He pointed with his other hand to a squiggly blue line that spanned several of Papyrus's ribs.

 _He wiggled,_ Frisk signed, biting the end of the marker and frowning at Papyrus's shoulder, peering past him to look at Sans. _He said it tickles._ Worry flashed through their dark eyes, and he saw the troubled question therein.

 _L-A-T-E-R,_ he spelled, and Frisk's frown deepened. _You're not in trouble._

Their expression relaxed somewhat and they leaned in to write something else on Papyrus, who was careful to remain perfectly still. He twisted his head and looked at the letters. "NOT QUITE, BUT GOOD TRY!"

Sans leaned forward and Papyrus twisted to show him. "Ah. Yeah, that would be 'scapula,' bud. Not 'spatula.'"

"BUT SPATULAS ARE WONDERFUL INVENTIONS AS WELL!" Papyrus said quickly. "I AM THINKING OF STARTING A COLLECTION!"

"Better ask Toriel about that, Pap," Sans advised. "So you're studying skeletons, kid? How's that going?"

 _Kids look at me funny in class when the teacher mentions it,_ Frisk said, pulling a face to demonstrate something between amusement and unease. _They think I'm making stuff up when I tell them about you and Papyrus."_

"OOH! SANS! WE SHOULD GO TO SCHOOL WITH FRISK AND GIVE A LESSON ABOUT SKELETON HISTORY!"

"Maybe not just yet," Sans said quickly. He had seen the way that Linda had looked at him—it would have been impossible to miss, really—and he wasn't about to let her start in on Papyrus. The meeting had been full of subtle comments clearly meant to make Sans feel unwelcome; he had lost track of the number of times she had called something 'monstrous,' but he felt a spiteful surge of pride when he remembered the face she had made upon hearing him agree with her, and how that face had twisted when he calmly declared the same thing 'inhuman.' _Dance, Linda,_ he had thought, fighting the urge to laugh as she glared daggers at him.

"HOW DID THE MEETING GO?" Papyrus asked, breaking Sans out of his thoughts. Behind him, Frisk flinched and the marker skidded slightly across Papyrus's clavicle. Their worried eyes found Sans's and he could see the tension creeping through their neck and back as they waited on tenterhooks for his response.

"You could definitely show them a thing or two about cooking, for starters," Sans answered, trying to keep his tone light and unconcerned.

"SHALL I MAKE SPAGHETTI FOR NEXT WEEK?"

"Eh, it's not really a spaghetti-environment," Sans said easily, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. "Good way to use your noodle, though." He winked.

Papyrus stared at him for a moment before detaching his right arm and throwing it at Sans, who dodged easily to the side.

 _Papyrus, I wasn't done!_ Frisk put their small fists on their hips, doing their best to look stern.

"I AM SORRY, FRISK," Papyrus said dutifully, wearing that expression that Sans enjoyed so much: his brother looked torn between smiling and screaming. Sans considered the day wasted if he didn't make Papyrus make that face at least once.

Sans picked up his brother's arm with blue magic and brought it to the table. "There's more to anatomy than labelling bones," he said. "You need to learn how to put them back together."

"GOOD IDEA!" Papyrus's annoyance vanished like smoke in a stiff breeze; he looked positively delighted at the idea of his own deconstruction. "YOU SHOULD TAKE MY ARM APART!"

Frisk looked anxiously between them. _Can I do that? Will it hurt?"_

"Not at all," Sans assured them, detaching the fingers of one hand and rattling them in his cupped palm like macabre dice. "See?" He put his hand back together and opened and closed his fist. "No _arm_ done."

"I CHANGED MY MIND," Papyrus said, looking around for something else to throw at Sans. "GIVE MY ARM BACK."

Sans tossed it to him and he reconnected it with a pop and a click that made Frisk shudder.

 _Don't like that noise,_ they said, taking Papyrus's hand and pulling his glove off to begin writing on his fingers.

* * *

Sans waited until Toriel had sent Frisk off to bed before slipping up the stairs and knocking softly on the door, waiting until Frisk opened it to let him in. They scampered back to their bed and sat on top of the rumpled covers, hugging their knees with one arm and turning on the bedside lamp (shaped like a seahorse).

"Somethin' tells me you didn't tell Tori about 'quiet hands,'" Sans said, sitting on the end of the bed and crossing his legs.

Frisk shook their head, nestling their chin between their knees.

"Mind tellin' me why?"

Their signs were slow, fully formed, a combination of thoughtful and dejected. _I don't want her to worry. She's sad already because the other teachers treat her different, and some of the kids think they can be rude to her. But a lot of other kids like her a lot…_ They paused, scratching at a seam in their quilt for a moment. Sans waited patiently for them to continue. _But she wants to save everyone. She wants to help everyone, and it makes her really sad when people are mean to her even if she doesn't show it. I can tell. I didn't tell her because I knew she would get mad at Mrs. Harris and I didn't want them to fight and maybe make Toriel lose her job. She wants to be a teacher and she was so happy when the principal said yes. I don't want her to lose that because of me._

Sans felt his heart soften and he ruffled Frisk's hair. "You're a good kid, Frisk," he said quietly.

 _What did you say to Mrs. Harris at the meeting?_

Sans decided not to tell Frisk about his not-too-subtle threat. "I said that it wasn't fair to you and that it was discriminatory for her to treat you any different. By the end of the meeting she agreed to talk to the principal about getting an interpreter for you so you don't have to worry about not being able to sign. I let Toriel know that you'd been facing some problems and that if the principal calls her in, it's not about anything that she's done wrong."

 _But did_ you _tell her about 'quiet hands?'_ Frisk's dark eyes were almost pleading.

Sans hesitated before shaking his head. "I didn't tell her any specifics. You should do that."

Frisk shook their head adamantly.

"No, listen to me. Toriel's part of the family and she cares about you a whole lot, kid. Remember?" He hoped that the gentle reminder of their conversation in the MTT Resort wouldn't hurt Frisk—they had never looked at him quite the same way after they heard his confession and saw his eyes bloom into blackness for the first time, realizing that he was not just the simple comic relief he had allowed himself to be. The first time they realized he could be dangerous.

To his immense relief, however, Frisk simply nodded, their expression softening into weary submission. _I know._

"If anything, she deserves to know so that she's not walkin' into it blind," Sans went on.

 _I don't know how._

"I can be there with you if you want," Sans offered. "But it's important that you tell her yourself."

Frisk gave him an unenthusiastic thumbs-up.

"So," Sans said, determined to make Frisk look at least less gloomy before going to sleep, "whose idea was it to write all over Papyrus?"

 _His,_ Frisk signed, beginning to smile. _After he found out about skeletons and calmed down, I showed him my worksheet and he said that it was ridiculous that I should be studying a picture when I had two skeletons in my house. …Sans?_

"What's up?"

 _If I'm causing problems for all of you, with my signing at school, I can…maybe…_

Sans held up his hand, shaking his head before Frisk could finish articulating their thought. "No way, kiddo. First, your signing is special and it's part of you. Nobody should think they're able to take that away. Second, it's not causing problems for us. The only people it hurts are those opposed to it because they're exposing themselves for the bigots they are. Third, don't ever think you gotta sacrifice your wellbeing or your rights for anyone's comfort. You hear me, kid? Don't ever settle for being treated as second-class just because it makes somebody else feel better about themselves. And fourth, your world is full of idiots. There's good people too, you're proof of that, but some people are stuck in their ways and you got no choice but to fight them." Sans let his eye glow, but this light was soft and warm, not a beacon of battle but a glimmer of pride and love. "Remember, pal, you're not alone in fighting, either. You've got all of us. We'll fight with you, and for you. We've all got your back, okay?"

Frisk nodded and smiled, rocking forward onto their knees to wrap their arms around Sans's neck and kiss him on the cheek. _Thank you._

He took them by the shoulders and gently pushed them backward, sending them tumbling onto the mattress with a giggle. "Go to sleep, kid, before you make everyone get sentimental."

They wriggled down beneath the quilt, pulling it up to their chin and peering owlishly up at him. _Good night, Sans._

"Sleep well, Frisk."


	4. Tacking Ain't for Everyone

**Tackling Ain't for Everyone**

The gym teacher had always been something of a joke at Mount Ebott K-12; until recently, the position had been held by a wheezing, doddering old gnome of a man whose entire teaching method was dumping a mesh bag of basketballs and jump-ropes into the middle of the floor and tottering back to his office as quickly as his scrawny chicken legs could take him. Rumor had it that his spirit was bound to the school; he seemed incapable of retiring despite being waist-deep in the grave.

Understandably, it was somewhat of a shock to the seventh period students when they shuffled and sauntered into the gym, doubtless ready for another easy day, only to be faced with a tall woman with aquamarine skin and a violently red ponytail, her powerful arms bare in a muscle shirt and her feet laced into steel-toed combat boots. Some of the brasher students had made the mistake of mouthing off, refusing to take instruction from a monster…until she had soundly kicked Joseph's ass in a push-up contest, switching to one arm and using her free hand to offer it and ask if he needed help.

Daniel Walker, the football coach, had taken a liking to her and often asked her to come to the practices; she hit harder than a linebacker and scorned the padding, flashing fanged smiles at whoever she stared down, her single eye glinting with more life than the seniors ever showed. Jasper, too, enjoyed her company. She understood the importance of speed and agility instead of the simple bash-'n-smash style favored by a previous coach, moving with the ease of a dancer amid bulls, untouchable and graceful even when tackling someone so hard they slid a full five yards while she bounded away unscathed.

But if she knew…

The final bell rang for the day and he trudged out the doors amid the tidal wave of other students, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and chest-to-backpack, cutting away from the crowd and making his way toward his favorite tree at the edge of campus. It loomed like a benevolent sentinel over the fence and bicycle racks, spilling cool gray pools of shade over the patchy grass. He had talked his family into believing that it would be easier to stay at school between release and football practice, but today he knew the solitude would get to him. His thoughts would bounce off his mind like reverse echoes, starting as whispers and ending in the shrieks of his doubts as they rained down upon him like stones.

Jasper's steps were slow as he made his way to the tree and sat down, pressing his back against the bark so hard that he felt the crooked wooden plateaus gouging into his skin. The pain was sweet and grounding and he braced his feet against the dusty earth, shoving harder as though hoping he could simply be absorbed by the tree. The thought of football practice circled overhead like an overgrown bird of prey, waiting for his resolve and momentary defiance to crumble and leave behind a submissive husk.

It was no use—the future was a distant and fictional thing, like the sky viewed through prison bars. He was trapped here, trapped in his mind, and the only escape route that music provided left a bitter ache deep within his chest. The tension left his legs and he folded forward, resting his forehead against his knees and closing his eyes as tight as he could. He carried his desires like a shameful brand, covered by a football helmet and cleats, and while there were beautiful blissful moments with the team, the fierce joyful comradery that came after a victory, it just wasn't the same.

"Hey."

He jerked his head up to see the new coach standing above him, her hands tucked loosely into her pockets and her violently red hair tied back in its customary ponytail. "Hi, Miss Undyne."

"Just Undyne," Undyne said, leaning against the tree and looking down at him with her single eye. "What're you doing here?"

"…Waiting for practice."

Her single eye narrowed. "Just _sitting_ here? You don't need a coach to train yourself!"

Jasper could see the manic light of battle beginning to light up her eye and held up his hands, trying to head her off before she got going. "I know, I just…I _hate_ football!"

She blinked, temporarily derailed, but she recovered marvelously. "So? Then you don't play football! You do what's in your _heart,_ punk! When you and your desires are united, there's nothing that can stand in your way!"

"You don't get it! I want…"

"What?" Undyne's fierce expression softened and she sat down next to him, looping her arm around her knees. "If it's something that makes you happy, it's something worth pursuing! It's worth that passion!"

"I want to do ballet," Jasper said in a rush, feeling his stomach clench into knots as the silence stretched, wire-tight and agonizing. He could feel Undyne's eye blazing into the side of his face and after a moment he couldn't take it. "I'm…uh…I'm kidding," he said lamely. "I should just stick to playing football, right? I mean, it's not like I'd be a good dancer…"

Undyne leapt to her feet. "You're right! You'll never be a good dancer!"

Jasper stared at her, horror chilling his blood and fear making his heart race.

She continued, stabbing a finger down at him. "You're going to be the BEST DAMN DANCER THIS SCHOOL HAS EVER SEEN! I'LL MAKE SURE OF IT!"

"Undyne, I—"

"If that's what matters to you, and that's what you want to do with your life, don't let ANYONE stand in your way!" She thrust her fist toward the sky. "What's important is that you don't compromise your dreams for anyone!"

"But my parents…" Jasper twisted his fingers into his hair. "My dad says it isn't 'masculine.'"

"Who cares?" Undyne asked, tossing her flaming hair impatiently. "They said that fighting wasn't ladylike, and I showed them! I became head of the Royal Guard because it was what I wanted to do! I had to work really hard, yeah, but I got there, and what's more important, I like who I am!" The passion faded from her voice and her face grew serious. "Don't you ever let them tell you what to do, or make you feel like there's a wrong way to exist. You hear me?"

Jasper nodded.

"Come on—I learned to dance as part of my training. It really helps with agility and speed. I'll teach you myself if that's what I have to do. Now follow me, I know somewhere we can practice."

* * *

 _Hello, one and all. This was an idea that I've been sitting on for a while, but had a lot of trouble writing. Undyne's mindset isn't really something that I can get into easily (as opposed to Sans, for example), so I apologize if this scene isn't up to scratch. No worries, though; I have some fun things planned for the next few chapters. All my love, Undiscovered_


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